


A Miraculous Touch (Is Just Enough)

by JennaMoon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble, Hands, Jewelry, No Dialogue, Other, so soft, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 14:09:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20409049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaMoon/pseuds/JennaMoon
Summary: Aziraphale’s fingers were quick and nimble; careful and precise; soft and deft, every single perfectly manicured digit.Crowley's had 6,000 years to get to know his Angel's hands.And he knows them very well.





	A Miraculous Touch (Is Just Enough)

Aziraphale’s fingers were quick and nimble; careful and precise; soft and deft, every single perfectly manicured digit.

They could make Crowley moan in delight, relax instantaneously. They worked quickly, those perfectly formed stems of beauty. They would twitch with nerves in any given, tense, moment. Shimmer with mystique whenever the angel fancied trying out some ‘human magic’. His angel was fantastic, with the things he did with those fingers.

One, the pointer, could recoil twice and have Crowley in toe, ready to do what his darling angel demanded. Not that Aziraphale could ever possibly be demanding. No; his angel was soft and kind and sweet… most of the time.

The middle finger was one to meet with the thumb, let out a thunderous ‘click’ in the midst of dazzlement. Straight and pointed and pretty and shiny and oftentimes pink nails that were looked after. A 2 PM appointment at Jade Angel (it was Aziraphale who had suggested the latter half of the name, Crowley was sure of it) every Friday insured that his nails were perfect.

His angel could rub his soft skin raw, the skin under his nails. To remove the dirt was to remove the past, the pasts his Angel would much rather forget. The skin was a sacrifice. Crowley would sometimes kiss, or suck, on the tips of those nails, hoping the broken skin underneath would feel his love. For he loved all of Aziraphale.

He would never stop his Angel from doing such things, however; his nails were a thing of pride for Aziraphale. Everyone has their ways, odd or otherwise, and sometimes the top layer or so of skin had to pay the price for such ways.

Crowley loved, specifically, the ring finger on Aziraphale’s left hand. Always bare, just begging to be decorated in gold or titanium or silver. Perhaps to weep a diamond, tear drop shaped. Or a sapphire, as blue as his Angel’s kind eyes?

There were options, of course, but that sort of decoration had to be the sort to last eternity. As long as eternity could be. Crowley was certain, however, that he wanted to gag that finger in metal and gem before the allotted time for eternity drew to an end.

Even then, the demon suspected he and his Angel might just be (un)lucky enough to live past that, too.

It wouldn’t have to be such an horrific thing.

So long as he had his Angel, and his Angel’s ring finger sporting a piece of jewellery too fine a thing for reality.

Not that his Angel hadn’t worn jewellery before. No, Aziraphale had always kept to a similar sort of fashion style throughout the years. Good shoes, a bow (in the hair, around the neck or on the tails of a fine coat, it made no difference) and some sort of frill (again, on the chest, trailing on the floor or touching skin with his Angel’s smooth behind, it made no difference).

Sensibly poncey.

That’s how his Angel dressed.

And his jewellery; mostly rings; oftentimes necklaces; less often bracelets; rarely anklets; once (and only once) a pair of earrings. Back in the 14th century. To alleviate the boredom, more than anything. Aziraphale took up goat herding that century, too. Never stuck to it, though.

But yes, his sweet, kind Angel, with a smile like dripping honey and eyes so bright they bought Crowley safely at bay, was no stranger to the luxury of jewellery decorating those fine, soft, gentle, hands.

But those pinkie fingers. Delectable, little things that they are… up in the air when his Angel sips his tea, tapping the corners of leather-bound books as Aziraphale read, utterly mesmerised by the words between his eyes. They could drive Crowley made at times, always a second behind the dazzles or waves, how they were the slightest bit crooked (towards the left). How the right pinkie was peppered in the faintest of freckles.

He would kiss every single one of those freckles, if he could. Press himself against the crooked tip and feel the warmth that ran from his Angel’s heart, and how it could reach, easily, to the soft, hidden areas like these.

He’s felt those fingers work together in tandem to clutch his hand, secure. They could make a mortal man’s hand snap in two from the sheer _security _those hands could output. He’s been on the receiving end of so many strokes and pats and squeezes, delivered by those fingers. He’s felt their heat under the covers, their cool forgivingness on the tops of mountains. Those fingers were truly magic, not in Aziraphale’s archaic sort of magic, but rather the sort that gathered up every ounce of love his dear Angel could bestow upon him and distributed it directly onto his flesh, his fibres, his cells.

His Angel’s hands were a miracle enough, and Crowley could not ask for any more than that.


End file.
